


Black Heart of Gold

by Fudgyokra



Series: Kinktober 2019 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Age Play, Costume Kink, Deepthroating, Facials, M/M, Masks, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, kinda sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-29 20:24:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20802443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: Maintaining the act well past the time to give it up is very much like Dick.





	Black Heart of Gold

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back for my third consecutive year of Kinktober. Hooray! If you’d like to check out my other prompt fills, here they are for [2017](https://archiveofourown.org/series/863300) and [2018.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1148915) Good luck to everyone participating! :)
> 
> Title from Dorothy's "Dark Nights."
> 
> Day 1: Deep-Throating* | Inflation | Face-Sitting | Masks*

It’s not an accident that it happens, but Dick makes it look like it is because he’s a damn good liar. Not lying; he’s _acting,_ Bruce mentally amends, but there is a very fine line between the two and he’s pretty sure they’ve both already crested it tonight.

The night has been stressful for reasons different than the usual affairs, meaning that they must load themselves into the back of a limousine after a hellish gala neither of them wanted to be at, feigning tipsiness on Bruce’s end and absolute drunkenness on Dick’s. Even once the door is closed and the partition is up they don’t break character. He supposes that’s what makes it easier for the hand that finds its way beneath his suit jacket to make its first move, and there’s no shortage of _moves_ after the fact.

Bruce can pretend just as well. After all, he taught the boy everything he knows.

He isn’t a boy now, if the beauty he had grown into isn’t proof enough past the experienced claw of his fingernails down Bruce’s chest, catching with faked clumsiness on the top button as if to sell the point he’s really shit-faced when they both know he’s not.

They need the excuse. He doesn’t know why they need the excuse.

Well—he _does. _He just knows that this way hurts Dick more than it helps himself, and despite the reputation of someone who lacks feelings, truthfully, Bruce is a man with very, very many of them. One or two try to pry their way out of his chest when Dick mouths at his jaw and moans softly as if the feeling alone brings him any sort of satisfaction.

This part is more purposeful; the supposed accident comes when they’re alone in the cave, and Dick’s got some stupid notion he wants to play dress-up. Bruce can tell he’s still…acting.It would be cute if it weren’t so frustrating, because he’s already swollen in his slacks, and by the time his companion slips out of the showers in full Robin regalia, he knows they’re playing the wrong game tonight. Like they haven’t been the entire time they have been doing this, he thought with a subconscious downward twitch to his mouth.

“Indulge me,” Dick slurs out. Bruce already is, and he’s regretting it before it even happens. “We just got back from patrol…” There’s a lilt to his words, almost sing-song, and he says the word_ just_ with a mouthful of vowels more than it needs, a sibilant hiss to top it off. “We fought off all the baddies. We win, as usual.”

He drops gracefully to the floor between Bruce’s knees from where he sits and sways a bit after the fact, as if he had forgotten the fact he’s supposed to be playing drunk. With a cheeky grin, he adds, “Because Batman never loses a fight.” That was offensively incorrect. He’s doing it on purpose.

Bruce is losing right now when he grunts an affirmation and cups a large hand around the back of Dick’s head, not guiding so much as holding in reverence. Dick unbuttons Bruce’s slacks and fishes him out of his underwear without a single hitch in movement, and if Bruce could see his eyes, he knows they’d be shimmering with something downright sinful.

It aids the image of a pure little Robin to have all that mischief concealed, Bruce supposes, but without the traditional view of those baby blues, all he can focus on while Dick works his hand and lips up the length of Bruce’s cock is the gentle curve of his mouth, the mature and sharp angle of his jaw.

Idly, he runs the pad of a thumb across Dick’s cheekbone where the bottom edge of his mask rests snugly against skin. The dual sensations of flesh and fabric skim across the ridges and whorls of the proffered digit, and Bruce clings to that more than the appreciative way Dick hums before playfully taking that into his mouth instead of what Bruce wants him to.

“‘S’this supposed to be helping me relax?” he asks, mindful of their game. He’d hate to break the immersion, considering how much it means to both of them that they never acknowledge the fact they’re really doing this. Or __why __they’re doing it.

“It’s more to rile you up.”

“Smart kid.”

Dick pulls off Bruce’s thumb with a pop and moves on to his cock instead, like the inappropriate praise unearthed something desirous inside him. Bruce hardly has time to shudder out a breath before he’s down Dick’s throat, and the hand he has on the back of the younger man’s head curls into a fist around locks of thick, dark hair. “You’re getting a little too good at this,” he says, even if it’s just to feed the fantasy. Dick had already been alarmingly good at this sort of thing by the time Bruce had gotten hold of him—and he shouldn’t be thinking about it like that, but he is, and he can’t stop the train of thought any more than he can stop his gaze from lingering over the hollow of Dick’s cheeks as he works.

When he backs off, his mouth glistens with spit before the better half of five minutes have even passed. Bruce can’t see his eyes or the brows above them, but he can see the way the mask lifts with his expression when he pulls his own cock out of those maddeningly tight shorts and strokes himself to a rather fast completion. Bruce knows they’re both worked up to that point like he knows he is deliberately being made to wait his turn.

He doesn’t miss how Dick shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, either, the scrunching of the domino’s fabric at the bridge of his nose giving him away. It exaggerates the expression until it becomes a kind of pout when he bites his lip, hearkening back to a childish era Bruce knows he has no business being proud of in this specific instance. The way Dick sighs “_Batman,_” as he comes down doesn’t do much to reroute the sentiment.

His glove and shorts are streaked with the evidence, but all he does is make a sound curiously like a giggle. Once again, Bruce maintains the illusion that he believes either of them isn’t completely, horrifically sober while he snatches Dick by the hair and pulls him back onto his cock. All the way down, like he likes. Like _Dick_ likes.

It’s damning how fast he can feel himself coming unraveled, if not by the flex of muscles squeezing him tightly, then by the way that stupid mask steals back several years of Dick’s actual age, making him look younger, yet no less debauched. Bruce figures it would be kind of hard to look innocent gagging and drooling like that.

From experience, he knows how much Dick’s eyes are watering. He can see the wet spots on the bottom edges of the mask as proof, but they’re less evocative than the knowledge they’d done this so many times before that Bruce can picture exactly how those eyes shine, not just with tears but with some raw, strong emotion to which both of them avoid attaching a name.

Dick swallows around him and the soaked cloth of the mask shimmers, tears bubbling through the porous surface with just enough strength to fall through and slide down the youthful curve of his cheeks. He pulls back a bit to eke out a muffled moan, and Bruce yanks him the rest of the way off just in time to finish in spurts across his boy’s face, marking him up from chin to brow. When he’s finished, Dick is sloppy, one of his lenses completely whited out from the mess.

Bruce heaves a sated breath that feels monstrous and relaxes back in his chair. Dick remains on his knees and grins, shark-like, up at him.

“Not too tired, are you, old man?” he teases, like he always does. Bruce is never too tired for this.

And so, after a brief pause, he concedes. “Perhaps a bit more champagne, first.” Maintaining the act well past the time to give it up is very much like Dick, he muses. Or is it like himself? He can’t remember the difference.

“Of course,” Dick says, yet doesn’t make a single move to fetch a bottle.

Smart kid, Bruce thinks once again. They won’t be needing it, anyway.


End file.
